He travelled as fast as he could, and happily there were no unusual or vexatious delays. But at its best the journey is one which, when a pressing anxiety goads on the traveller, seems as if it would never end. It drags you along past Chambery, and pretty Aix lying under its hills, lingers hopelessly at Modane, and then goes clambering slowly up to the land of snows, before it will take you into the land of sunshine. Afterwards you sweep down to Turin and the vast Lombardy plains, and going towards Florence, creep again into a belt of mountains honey-combed with tunnels, where the gorges in February are just awaking to the first promises of spring, and by-and-by see the twinkling lights of cheery Pistoija, and then the brighter ones of Florence. Jack, leaning out, thought of other evenings, when those lights had shone in the beautiful Val d'Arno. He stopped there now for a few hours' rest, and the place seemed laden with memories which yet were younger than it was easy to believe. It was a warm night; even already the air was touched with sweet flowery scents, and all the carnival people were flashing about, making the place merry with their laughter. His journey began again early the next morning, and in the afternoon he reached Rome. Who does not know that approach? As the train passed through the golden brown campagna the sun was setting; no words can describe the rich glow which tinged the mountains: too rich for lilac, too delicate and warm for purple, it seemed the very embodiment of colour, and where on the highest points the snow of winter yet rested, it was on fire with rosy lights; while Tiber, rolling sluggishly through the Sabine meadows, gave back the soft reflections as faithfully and placidly as though he were only a quiet country stream, untouched by history, and untainted by blood.